The Blue Eyes
by Zoney568
Summary: Someone can imagine what's the worst thing that could happen to France? Here you have the answer.
_Himuraya blablabla_

 **The Blue Eyes**

France enters the bedroom with Prussia's hair brush and a DRAMATIC face.

"One…, " he swallows not being able to say it out loud.

"What?" England, who is putting on his socks, looks at him.

"One!"

"One what?" The English finishes putting on his socks and walks towards him to have a better look.

"One ONE!" France hands the brush to him, almost trembling.

England takes the brush, examining it.

"It's… a white hair? IT'S A WHITE HAIR!"

"DON'T SAY IT!" France looks away, biting his lip.

"But you are blondie! It doesn't stand out!"

"But it's a white haaaaair! One white hair in my beautiful head! And what comes next? That my ass…," the French winces, not being able to finish the sentence.

"Falls!" England exclaims with a cocky smile.

"Noooooon!" Hands shots to his ass.

"And wrinkles." Mocking tone from the English, still holding the brush.

France sits down, leaning on the bed and hugging his knees.

"THAT'S NOT GOING TO HAPPEN TO ME!" He throws a tantrum on the floor, "DON'T WANNA! I CHOOSE DEATH!"

"And then, along with using glasses for everything and a cane to walk, and not to mention losing the vitality…" England continues, bending down to be at his level.

"Waaaaaaaaaaah! NOOOOO!" A muffled scream comes from France, who is covering his face.

"And you are going to stop being appealing to other people; the ladies are going to see you as an old man, not as a charming young man!" England pokes him with the brush, enjoying the French's drama.

"Don't wanna! That's not going to happen to me!" He whines, genuinely distressed.

"The pigeons will be the only ones that will like you when your back bends and your bones crack."

"Tais-toi!" He kicks without force, face hidden behind his rumpled hair.

"And if you keep that posture, it will happen in like two minutes."

"That's not going to happen to me!" France takes the brush and throws it away from England. "I will ALWAYS be beautiful!" His red, tear-rimmed eyes glares up at his lover.

"You will see…," England sits in front of him to continue talking. "And if you think that a white hair is bad, wait until your hair falls and starts growing on your back and ass, and your skin gets spotted and wrinkled, and you have varicose veins, and a belly, and-"

"Nooooon! Non!" He protests, his hands balled into fists at his sides. "You are going to forget to say that you hate me and you are going to start telling the truth!" The French adds, in a desperate attempt to pester England.

"That's not going to happen!" England blurts, frowning.

"And you are going to forget your tales and histories and all your secrets! I am going to remember those and I am going to know them better than you!" France exclaims, getting his hair out of the way and pointing at him.

"No!" The English man screams with grief in his green eyes, starting to panic.

"And I will need to tell you who I am because…," France murmurs sadly, causing the English to look at him with grief, "I don't like that idea either … I want you to remember, even when you have white hair and fallen teeth," he moves next to him.

England curls up, hiding his face between his knees. The guilt and regret tastes very bad, as he would feel very lonely if either of them forgot their tales and stories too.

France turns to hug him, instinctively he hugs back.

"Don't go if I forget them," England whispers. France shakes his head.

"I will be by your side to help you remember," he assures. "…And if I become ugly and bald… will you tell me that I'm still handsome?"

England smiles softly and hugs him tighter.

"No…," he lies.

"You are cruel," he bemoans, but then smiles and cuddles with England.

"And you are and will always be an ugly frog."

"I am not an ugly frog," he denies; the same conversation, repeated over ten thousands million times throughout their two thousand years.

"You are the ugliest frog!" Usual answer since England had five years.

"You are dumb and I don't love you anymore! "His way of speech changes, speaking in his language. Threatening words or not, the meaning is still the same.

After several seconds of hesitation from the Englishman, he refutes "Well, I don't care if an ugly frog doesn't like me!" He retorts, more pained than he intended it to be.

"I am not an ugly frog!" France protests, dragging out the last word.

"You are the ugliest frog!"

"Nooooon! I am beautiful, you like and you love me!"

"No!" The English blushes.

"Oui!" France looks up, teary eyed but smiling "You like me~"

"I don't! You are ugly!"

"Non! I am not ugly!"

"Of course yes, look…," England moves aside slightly and runs his hand through the French's hair, tangling his fingers carefully between it, petting him. "With your ugly, golden hair, one's that moves with the wind like the maize in the corn fields. That reflects the rays of sunshine. Dirty and sticky, constantly moving, making it look so messy…"

France smiles, slightly hopeful with that phrase… Acting with caution, as if England was a baby reindeer; not wanting to scare him away. He moves his hand gently to the English's cheek.

"And your vagabond's beard that itches…," England follows it with the fingers, tickling himself with it. "And gives you a disarranged and slovenly aspect."

France let his eyelids fall, looking at England from the corner, his heart racing.

"And…," England continues petting as he slowly moves his hand upper. "Your boring eyebrows that draw perfect arcs," he traces them with his finger.

France looks at his finger, which is tracing his eyebrows, getting calmer.

"Your rounded forehead, and your rosy cheekbones," he raises his other hand to caress his cheekbones as if he wanted to memorize their form to sculpt him. "that sometimes turns to the soft color of the roses. And your big eyes of infinite eyelashes, in which blue you can lose yourself in like the deepest ocean..."

France looks at him, charmed; his mouth parted and eyes glimmering.

"They always make me think about old times, the clear sky above the meadows when we ran and played…," the English continues, letting the words flow like the river. "In the sea and the liberty of the Age of Discovery… and in the real blue of satin of the bucolic decadence… in how they seemed to be the only intense color during the cruel war that turns everything grey…"

France opens his eyes wide like saucers, classifying, ordering and saving each word he had told him. Surely he could be able to repeat EACH AND EVERY word if someone asked him tomorrow.

England blinks, smiles and he looks at his eyes as if they were the answer to everything.

"I am not going to forget my stories, I see all of them every time I look at you," he whispers.

Blue eyes get teary again, touched; he smiles, "You make me feel the man more… more…," France whispers speechless.

The British runs his finger under France's eyes, wiping away the tears.

"Oh, Angleterre… You don't know the things you make me feel," He whispers, eyes closed, but smiling.

"Well…," he blushes slightly. "Don't think that your nose or lips are any better!"

France throws himself at his neck, hugging him.

"I like you a lot, Angleterre," he whispers.

England blushes heavier and swallows, nervous.

"A lot, more than anyone else can," France assures sincerely.

"In the end, all my stories are associated with blue, all due to you," England whispers trembling slightly, in a strange declaration.

"Blue?" France asks softly.

He smiles, not answering. However, his eyes speak clearer than any other declaration, making a statement; the stories in them speak for themselves.

"I don't know where I would have been without your stories…," A side smile shots his way, recalling that near-half his ideals in life started one way or another because of the English's tales.

"That and other than being an ugly frog, you would have been even dumber. Then you would continue behaving like a defenseless girl." England tells him, smiling in amusement.

"That's also very possible," France closes his eyes and denies with the head. "the girl thing however…"

"Is the truth," England teases, making him laugh

"The truth is that, if I am able to hit someone, or defend myself with only my fist-it's all thanks to you," he admits with a smile.

"And you are not even good at it," England pokes his chest.

"All this time you were the prince charming of my story… it's a pain that you got spoiled." France sticks out his tongue.

"Ha! Well then, you were always the dragon!"

"A very handsome dragon!" The French exclaims.

"Noo, a warty one, in an ugly green colour! With gigantic horns and fire coming out its mouth," England grimaces, gesturing fearfully with his hands just by imagining it.

"Anglaterreeee!" He protests weakly, chuckling. "I couldn't possibly be the bad one! I am cute, or handsome and even made you blush!"

"That's why you were the bad one!" England answers and a second later falls in realization. "EH! NO! WAIT!"

France laughs out loud.

"No!" He snaps and throws himself on top of France, rolling on the floor. He attempts tickling, tousling, or even flattening him to make him deny it. But then the intent is washed away, beginning to play instead.

"Oui! Aaaahhhh!" He screams, laughing and barely put any effort to stop the British man.

He plays the damsel and cheats; groping England's ass.

"Waaaaah!" England tries to move and defend himself.

A while later, both of them are chocking with laughter, lying haphazardly on the floor. England's laughter lowers when he remembers what he was going to do before the interruption-to describe the frog's lips, with the hopes of getting a kiss-but was forgotten at some point when they were playing.

But then France turns to looks at him, a gaze that makes him reminiscent of Nala's face-from The Lion King- all sparkling eyes, blinking with a large smile on his face.

England blushes, speechless.

France smirks, and crawls closer to England while wetting his lips. His intent clearly coloured on his face; and England hesitates- nervous and wary- the French seems to be able to read his mind.

The Englishman's heart skips a beat, his eyes fluttering close.

The French closes the distance between them- allowing their lips to brush.

England holds his breath, his lips parting instinctively for France before he can stop it.

France smiles and closes his eyes, linking their lips together. He sneaks his arms behind England's neck, pulling him closer to deepen their kiss.

They prolong the kiss, feeling the union healing something in them- knowing that this is only something they can give to each other.

A prize should be rewarded for how they made an insignificant thing, into this.

* * *

 _So, this is my first time translating a fanfic. Its original name is "Los ojos azules", and is a Spanish fanfic writted by the amazing authors_ Agua y Aceite, _who gave me the permission to translate and publish their work._

 _So, thanks to them and the amazing author_ Awesome Bird _for helping me to edit this. It was really confusing and strange at first, but thankfully, we finally made it._

 _Please review and let me know what you think ^^_


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